I'll Be Holmes for Christmas
by sirensbane
Summary: Because these characters are fascinating no matter the circumstances. My contribution to the December Challenge 2019.
1. Chapter 1 - 'Sherlock'

**1\. From PowerOfPens: Holmes is unhappy with his Christian name.**

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Having little basis for comparison, and disinterested as I am in the mores that typically govern our society, I do not know whether all siblings are as irritating as is mine. Though I have often appreciated someone who was capable of understanding my deductions — my parents were notably deficit in this regard — my acquaintanceship with Doctor Watson has led me to appreciate a companion who does _not_ criticize my personal appearance or believe me to be merely a rather slower copy of himself. Nevertheless, it cannot be denied that Mycroft has his uses, and so it was that I found myself in the Stranger's Room of the Diogenes Club one evening in the spring of 1896. As ever, the faithful Watson accompanied me.

"Good evening, Sherlock," Mycroft said. He gestured vaguely in my direction. "I see that you are doing your best to live up to your name."

I ground my teeth. Mycroft was quite evidently in a perverse mood today, and I could tell from the twinkling in his eyes that he did not refer to our _surname_. Even now, the subject of my Christian name has the power to drive me to distraction.

"Spectacles would seem to be in order, brother mine," I managed coolly after a moment. "My hair is no lighter than it was before." Watson looked puzzled, but I was in no mood to enlighten him. Our father's passion for cricket was quite reprehensible, and it was difficult to imagine a more ill-suited name than the one he had bestowed. 'Bright-haired' indeed.

Alas, Mycroft did not mean to allow the matter to drop. "I do not mean 'bright-haired'," he said severely, as though I were being foolish. "I refer in fact to your name's second meaning, that of 'cropped, cut hair.' You have visited the barber recently, Sherlock, where I fear he did a rather inferior job."

Not for the first time, I regretted the need to bring the occasional case to Mycroft's attention. It makes him quite insufferable.

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**A/N: Supposedly, 'Mycroft' and 'Sherlock' were both drawn from the surnames of cricket players that Doyle knew. At least he didn't go with his original choice; can you imagine a character named Sherringford Holmes?**


	2. Chapter 2 - Nervous Wreck

**2\. From Winter Winks 221: A nervous wreck**

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_"__Well, well!" said Killer Evans coolly as he scrambled to the surface. "I guess you have been one too many for me, Mr. Holmes. Saw through my game, I suppose, and played me for a sucker from the first. Well, sir, I hand it to you; you have me beat and– –"_

_In an instant he had whisked out a revolver from his breast and had fired two shots._

_\- Adventure of the Three Garridebs_

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I will admit that my reaction to Watson's injury took me by surprise. I had always viewed emotion as an impediment to my work and flatly contradictory to the supreme logic to which I had dedicated my life. As such, I had no desire to become entangled in what Mycroft termed "sentimental attachments." And yet, at some point in the years since Watson and I had become acquainted, I _had_ developed just such an attachment. At some point, I had begun to care for Watson as more than simply my biographer, but had begun to consider him — dare I say it? — a friend.

I shuddered at the thought of what Mycroft would say if he knew.

But no, it was not simply discomfort at the thought of my brother's reaction; to my horror, my hands were beginning to tremble. Killer Evans was still bragging of his counterfeiting, and I answered distractedly. I could only hope my distraction was not apparent. The tremors grew steadily more intense, and I clasped my hands behind my back in a further attempt to conceal them. I could not understand this reaction…I had hardly been in danger. Unless…was this some kind of side effect of my concern for Watson's welfare?

Clearly emotion of this kind _was_ an impediment, if I could not control it in the presence of our prisoner. Nor_ could_ I conceal it for much longer. Killer Evans had fallen silent at last, and I realized belatedly that his last question had been a challenge.

"Only attempted murder, so far as I can see," I said, trying for my usual air of unconcern. "But that's not our job. They take that at the next stage. What we wanted at present was just your sweet self. Please give the Yard a call, Watson. It won't be entirely unexpected." It was cruel to ask him to rise and summon the police himself, I thought uncomfortably, after suffering an injury, but my discomfort was nearly buried by the terror that I might soon lose control completely.

At any rate, Watson did not question me, but limped to do as I had asked. For once, the police were not utterly useless; a pair of constables quickly arrived to take charge of our prisoner and take him back to Scotland Yard. Watson's injury and obvious need for a doctor distracted them from questioning me, a fact for which I was exceedingly grateful.

"Are you coming, Holmes?"

I avoided Watson's open, honest gaze. "I will follow shortly. There are one or two points I would like to clear up regarding the printing press." Then I turned away before I could see his look of disappointment. A few moments later, I heard the door close.

The minutes that followed I do not care to remember clearly. Indeed, there are nothing but flashes: shaking uncontrollably for several minutes, an odd feeling of helplessness. Let all the rest be purged from my brain attic forever!

At last, I trudged up the steps to Baker Street. I had been absent so long that Watson had already received his stitches from his colleague Dr. Wright and returned by cab. He was in his dressing gown, a most unusual sight, and sat ensconced by a roaring fire. Mrs. Hudson's doing no doubt. I felt another pang of regret. Watson had been injured while accompanying me, and instead of remaining by his side, I had forced him to care for himself because of my inability to manage my traitorous emotions. Clearly, I required more practice in mastering myself.

Watson noticed my entrance at once, of course. Though he is often oblivious to the most obvious of details, I have learned Watson is remarkably attuned to my presence. I have yet to account for it. To my surprise, instead of exclaiming loudly that I had returned, or some such inanity, he studied my face quite seriously.

"Are you alright, old fellow?"

I could only shake my head in muddled disbelief. Watson's injured leg was propped up on pillows, but he paid no attention to it in that moment. Somehow, his concern for _my_ welfare trumped the pain he was no doubt feeling. My stomach clenched. Even if what I felt for Watson _was_ friendship, I was surely not worthy of it.

"Perfectly." I did not feel up to more; the smile I gave him was hard enough.

He studied my face a moment more, then smiled. Not, I recognized with a start, a smile that indicated belief in my statement. A fond, accepting smile. "In that case, Holmes, will you keep me company awhile? Mrs. Hudson mentioned something about bringing up tea."

The knot in my stomach became resolve. I may not be worthy of Watson's friendship, but I will do whatever I must to keep him safe.

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**A/N: Wow, another story from Holmes' perspective. I guess I'm really taking the title this year to heart!**


	3. Chapter 3 - With the Aid of Music

**3\. From PowerOfPens: Music helps Holmes solve a case.**

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"Holmes," I whispered as we crept through the shadows towards the arbor. "Why are we here? Surely if we have found no evidence in the past week that implicates Lady Tremaine in her husband's murder, we will not find it here."

Holmes shot me a briefly irritated look and readjusted his grip on his violin. It was the presence of the violin that had caused me to break my silence in the first place. In my long acquaintanceship with Holmes, I had been on many midnight stakeouts. However, I could not imagine what use a violin would be on an enterprise that relied primarily on stealth and silence.

Instead of answering, Holmes led the way to a small bower created artfully by a stone bench and the branches of an overhanging willow. I cast my eyes in the direction of the house, but although I know we were quite near, the willow's waving fronds obscured the lighted window that belonged to Lady Tremaine. I imagined this place would be incredibly picturesque in the morning light; I wondered idly how many young lovers had met beneath these boughs. Holmes, however, seemed to have no interest in the beauty of the place. Waving for me to keep still and silent, he crept to the center of the grotto, head also tilted in the direction of the house. Then, at some signal only he could see, he lifted his violin to his shoulder and began to play.

I have spoken before of Holmes' talent on the violin, but even my long experience did not prepare me for the haunting melody that he drew from the strings that night. I vaguely recognized it as some kind of Irish ballad, but here, within a curtain of willow branches and lit only by moonlight, I felt my hair stand on end. I could not help but feel as though spirits were gathering around to listen my friend, his eyes closed in the middle of the clearing and bow moving ceaselessly across the strings.

The song trailed off at last, and far off, we heard a sharp noise, like a window being slammed. Holmes' smile was fierce and feral in the moonlight. "Come, Watson," he whispered to me. "Our work is done."

* * *

"Lord Tremaine was known to serenade his lady with that very ballad," he said with satisfaction the next day as Inspector Lestrade escorted Lady Tremaine down to a waiting carriage. There were dark circles beneath her eyes, and I fancied I could see the trace of tears on her pale cheeks. "Indeed, he often did so in that clearing, the place where he proposed five years ago. Knowing as I did that she often slept with her windows open, it was a simple matter to ensure that she would hear it."

"But what made you believe she would make a full confession?" I asked. "Surely a woman who poisoned her husband is unlikely to have much familial feeling."

Holmes fixed me with his steadiest gaze. "On the contrary, her husband's betrayal could not have roused her to such action if she did not suffer fervently from just such an attachment. Love, Doctor Watson, is by far the most dangerous of all human emotions, for it devoid us of our reason and inspires us to commit the most monstrous of actions."

I could find no words to argue the point just then; instead I watched as the carriage pulled away.


	4. Chapter 4 - Magical Powers

**4\. From Michael JG Meathook: Watson discovers he has innate magical abilities and endeavors to hone them so as to finally be an equal partner with Sherlock.**

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Readers of _The Strand_ magazine and the cases I have penned featuring my dear friend, Sherlock Holmes, often marvel at the extraordinary feats of genius to which my friend is prone. And indeed, my portrayal of Holmes' powers is not exaggerated; were he born but a few centuries ago, I have no doubt he would be burned for witchcraft. And yet, in chronicling the cases which I present to the public, I have, of necessity, given myself rather a smaller role in his adventures than perhaps is entirely truthful. I do not regret this; Holmes' extraordinary powers are of the utmost interest to the public, far more than the exploits of a retired army surgeon, and are indeed worthy of such interest.

However, here in the pages of my private journal, I must recount a curious series of events that befell me, and me alone. For though they may seem inexplicable, yet I have hopes that by setting my thoughts to paper, I may make sense of all that has transpired.

It happened first in my surgery. A young man came to visit me, complaining of a pain in his abdomen. I retrieved a notebook with which to take notes, and as I hunted for a pen, idly pointed to a place just beneath my own ribs. "A sharp pain here, followed by twisting sense of nausea?"

It was only when I noted the young man's wide-eyed stare that I realized he had not yet given me a description of the pain. "E-exactly, Doctor Watson!" he said. "H-how did you know?"

At the time, I put it down to a shrewd guess on my part, or even perhaps a deduction of my own drawn from a dozen details about the young man that I had not consciously perceived. I administered the proper treatment, and sent the young man on his way much impressed with my medical expertise. And yet, three days later, as I walked down the street outside my practice, I was seized by a sudden certainty that the tradesman whom I had just passed was extraordinarily hungry. Turning to observe him, I witnessed him just turning into a bakery, already pulling out a handful of coins.

As the days passed, these strange certainties became more and more frequent. I was able to diagnose several of my patients before they had even expressed their symptoms, and more than once I felt anger, exhaustion, or happiness as I walked along the street that had no correlation to my own emotions. I thought of confiding this strange phenomenon to Holmes, but I half suspected that he would dismiss the notion out of hand, as something inimical to the logic to which he had devoted his life. Yet for my part, I could not help but wonder if this was not something far _beyond_ logic, drawn from the fantastical instead of the mundane.

"Watson!"

I jolted out of my reverie to find Holmes watching me keenly from his place near the fire. I did not need my newfound powers to read the supreme irritation in his face. No doubt this was not the first time he had attempted to gain my attention.

"Yes, Holmes?"

"I asked what you thought of our client, Mr. Bunbridge. What do you make of his story about the sardines and the chemical experiment?"

"He was lying about the cause of the fire," I said. "No doubt _he_ was responsible for the death of the workers." No sooner were the words out of my mouth than I paused in confusion. Despite his unusual story, Mr. Bunbridge had seemed quite sincere. Indeed, I could think of nothing in his testimony that would lead me to such a conclusion.

Was it my imagination, or was Holmes similarly startled? "I am inclined to agree with you, Watson," he said after a moment. "I believe I will investigate more closely. Although this case appears simple on the surface, it does present a _few_ elements of interest."

Of course, when Holmes' investigation was concluded, I was proven right. Mr. Bunbridge had indeed been the cause of the fire that had killed two workers at the sardine factory, and had enlisted Holmes' help in a bold attempt to brazen out his crime. Holmes made no comment, but he gave me a strange look as the police led Mr. Bunbridge away to Scotland Yard.

It was this incident that has given me hope that my powers can be used to somehow aid Holmes in his cases. His work often brings him into contact with the most dangerous of criminals. If I am able to determine their motives or sense their actions in advance, I will be able to provide my friend with a measure of safety that he has not hereto been afforded.

Perhaps this power, inexplicable as it is, will prove a blessing.


	5. Chapter 5 - A Chicken

**5\. From Ennui Enigma: A Chicken**

**A/N: Yet another thing I did not know before I began this challenge…**

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"Holmes, you cannot seriously be implying that Lord Hamhurst murdered Lord Breckwell over a chicken!"

Holmes lifted an ironic eyebrow. "Alas, Watson, you and I are not of the wealthy and aristocratic class that views poultry breeding as a serious hobby. Lord Breckwell's prize-winning cockerel was the envy of his peers. Indeed, his housekeeper has informed me that he has given a number of dinner parties in the last month _specifically_ for the purpose of discussing the lineage of this most laudable fowl."

He waved a languid hand. "In contrast, Lord Hamhurst's bird has performed abysmally at the last three shows in which he hoped to carry off the prize. It is clearly a passion of his; you can see that simply by the number of books on poultry adorning the walls of his library. I think you'll find that they pay particular attention to improving the plumage, conformation, and size of the birds produced. In addition, I find on his desk not one, not two, but _three_ rejected petitions to Lord Breckwell to utilize the…_services_ of his enviable bird in the production of Lord Hamhurst's newest line. That, in conjunction with the savagery of the wounds inflicted upon Lord Breckwell, which speaks of a most _profound_ irritation, leads me to believe that Lord Hamhurst is indeed the culprit. I will, of course, investigate further; there has already been _considerable_ outcry over this murder, and drawing an incorrect conclusion would quite simply cripple my poor reputation."

It seemed impossible to me that any man would rate common livestock quite so highly, but Holmes of course was quite correct. Indeed, it took him less than an hour at the Hamhurst estate to find proof that satisfied the police and his own much higher standards. Confronted with his crime, Lord Hamhurst surrendered quietly, but with an air of someone who has been grievously wronged. As he was escorted to the waiting police wagon, I could hear him haranguing the poor officers for their failure to punish Lord Breckwell before his death for his "dastardly crimes."

Holmes, for his part, favored me with a rueful smile. "I find that I am quite famished, Watson. Shall we dine at Simpson's to celebrate the successful conclusion to the case?"

I shuddered. "As long as we do not order chicken."

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**Yes, apparently the "Artistic Chicken" was a big deal in Britain during the Victorian Era. Below is the website I used; you'll need to replace the dots and eliminate the spaces. I like to think that Watson decided not to publish this story in ****_The Strand_**** magazine because he knew that the primarily middle class audience would find it just as unbelievable!**

** www dot chickens dot allotment-garden dot org / chicken-keeping / poultry-housing-victorian-era /**


	6. Chapter 6 - Mary's Winter Memory

**6\. From cjnwriter: Mary Watson's favorite winter memory**

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Although Mary Watson had no cause to regret her life, nothing quite trumped her first winter as Mrs. Watson. Perhaps in deference to John's recent marriage, or simply due to some whims of his own, Mr. Holmes called upon John only rarely in those winter months, and John was free to spend most of his evenings in her company. It was not that Mary resented Sherlock Holmes; to love John was to accept the role Mr. Holmes played in his life. Indeed, were it not for Mr. Holmes, she would have been doomed to a life without John in it.

Yet it was extremely pleasant to sit together before a flickering fire, hearing the wind whistle outside their snug little windows, she at her sewing and John reading the newspaper or writing up another of Holmes' cases. From time to time, he would draw her attention to something or other of interest, and she would smile at the passion in his voice and feel once more a sense of joy at the ring around her finger. From time to time, they would spend hours together talking; John was not like other men of his class who did not believe a woman had anything to contribute to a discussion. During those long winter nights, she shared more of herself than she ever had before with anyone else before, and basked in his love and regard. In the years that followed, Mary would always hold onto that winter as one of her favorite memories.

Though the massive snowball fight outside Baker Street consisting of John, Mr. Holmes, and a dozen of the Irregulars surely ranked a close second…

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**A/N: Sorry this is so short. I hope it is at least a little sweet.**


	7. Chapter 7 - A Red-Headed Gentleman

**7\. From Ennui Enigma: Dr. Watson spies another red-headed gentleman**

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"Thank you, Holmes, for agreeing to accompany me. I know this is not usually the sort of play you enjoy."

"I daresay I can survive _one_ rendition of _A Christmas Carol,_" my friend said, though his voice hardly boasted much enthusiasm. "If, as we agreed, you will cease to bother me with invitations to go caroling."

"Agreed," I said, but inwardly I grinned. In truth, my invitations for Holmes to join me in singing alongside the members of Scotland Yard had never been serious ones, as despite his surprising singing voice, Holmes would never deign to use it in such company. However, I had known it would annoy him sufficiently that I could convince him to attend this play if only to have some peace. _A Christmas Carol_ was one of my favorite novels, and I trusted that such a famous theater would do credit to it in its new adaptation. Besides, my editor, Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, had invited me specifically to this performance.

"Dr. Watson!" True to his habit, Sir Arthur was awaiting us outside the Lyceum. He grabbed my hand and shook it heartily, then extended the same to Holmes. My friend's face had gone very bland. Alas, Sir Arthur's fascination with the supernatural and spiritualism put him rather at odds with Holmes' supremely logical mindset. I was grateful at least that Holmes had managed to keep his disdain from his face. "There is someone I _must_ introduce you to. He is a writer, like yourself, though at present he is absorbed with managing this fine theater. Also a distant relative you know, cousins twice or thrice removed, or somesuch…You must ask my wife if you want the exact details…"

"I would be pleased to meet a fellow writer," I said honestly, and charitably chose to ignore Holmes' snort. He has never approved of what he terms my "romanticized drivel." Sir Arthur led us into the lobby and up the stairs overlooking the rows of seats. A gentleman turned to greet us as we did so, and I was immediately struck by his head of thick, red hair. I was forcibly reminded of our first encounter with Mr. Jabez Wilson during the case of the "Red-headed League". Unlike Mr. Wilson, however, this man was quite athletic and muscular, and intelligence glittered in his green eyes.

"Dr. Watson, Mr. Holmes," Sir Arthur said, gesturing to the man. "Meet my friend Bram Stoker. We met when he agreed to manage my play _Waterloo, _which Mr. Irving was kind enough to put on in this very theater."

"It was a most enjoyable performance," the man said in an accented tone hinting heavily at Irish roots. He extended his hand to me. "Dr. Watson. I have greatly enjoyed reading your work in _The Strand_ magazine." He then turned to Holmes and greeted my friend with the same cheerful candor. "Mr. Holmes. It is a pleasure. Your reputation proceeds you."

"I fear Watson is sometimes guilty of romanticizing my work," Holmes said. "He reduces what ought to be a series of logical treatises into a sensational series of events."

"I fear Holmes and I will never agree upon this point," I said. "But you cannot deny, Holmes, that you have had a great deal more cases since the first was published."

A little to my surprise, Holmes did not deign to continue our usual argument. Instead, he turned to Mr. Stoker. "Sir Arthur tells us you are a writer yourself, Mr. Stoker," he said. "Do you favor short stories as Watson does?"

"Alas, Mr. Holmes, my skill is only for novels. I have written several, and I am in the process of completing an epistolary novel which I hope will be successful. It is the culmination of years of research."

At that moment, the lights began to dim, and ushers began to escort the remaining audience members towards their seats. Mr. Stoker shook our hands once more, then excused himself to attend to last-minute details. We took our seats as well and the play began, but I confess I was somewhat distracted thinking about Mr. Stoker and his upcoming book. I would have appreciated the opportunity to probe more deeply into its subject matter.

Perhaps next year when it is published, I shall purchase a copy.

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**A/N: Yes, it turns out that Doyle and Stoker were distantly related. I am officially going to name this December Challenge as "The One Where I Learn Lots of Random Facts". Random fact #2: The Lyceum was known for adapting Charles Dickens novels.**


	8. Chapter 8 - Riots in the Streets

**8\. From ThatSassyCaptain: Real Victorians strongly protested Holmes' death - is there something in the Great Hiatus that fictional Victorians might take to the streets over instead?**

**Warnings for anti-Catholic sentiment and language common to the place and period. It does not reflect my personal beliefs.**

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"Holmes, you cannot be serious!"

Holmes raised an ironic brow, an action so familiar that it brought a pang to my heart despite my irritation. In the three years since his apparent death, this at least had remained unchanged. "Indeed I am, Watson. The only way I could investigate the Italian crime ring was to assume a guise that was utterly beyond suspicion. A nun's habit both fit this requirement and prevented awkward questions regarding the administration of the sacraments. I had no wish to be asked to preside over a baptism or stumble my way through a Mass! Though perhaps my investigation would have been easier if I had been able to hear confession…"

I had a brief horrified vision of the public's reaction to the news that the great Sherlock Holmes had not only dressed as a woman —no amount of popularity would excuse the scandal in the minds of _The Strand_'s largely middle class audience — but had claimed association, even briefly, with the papacy. Despite the law in 1791 which allowed them their places of worship, there was still a great deal of anti-papist sentiment. And even if the loyal members of the Church of England failed to shun Holmes for his actions, the small papist minority that did exist in the city would no doubt be enraged that Holmes had dared to impersonate a religious figure. I had no wish to see Holmes burned in effigy on Bethnal Green.*

"If it's all the same to you," I managed after a moment of appalled silence, "I believe I will forgo mentioning this in the account of your hiatus."

Was that a twinkle in Holmes' eye? Sometimes his disregard for social mores was vexing. "I will leave it to your discretion."

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**A/N: *Anti-Catholic sentiment intensified after the flood of Irishmen into England during the Great Famine, and one Catholic cardinal was even burned in effigy. On Bethnal Green, as it happens. Bless you, Wikipedia. **


	9. Chapter 9 - Holmes in Space

**9\. From hold . my . coat: AU - Sherlock Holmes in space**

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The Doctor pulled the lever on the TARDIS console with a flourish and straightened his bowtie. There! One very cranky Zslarisskkk contained behind a forcefield — _must remember to move it to a more secure area later _—, one slightly harried looking human clinging to the railing, control room only a little wet…ok, a lot wet. Maybe he should put up signs?

"Who are you?" the harried human croaked, finally releasing his death grip on the railing. His eyes darted around the control room in confusion. "Where are we?"

"Oh, didn't I say that already?" the Doctor said, flicking a few more switches and turning his head to give the human a quick welcoming grin. "I'm the Doctor. This is my TARDIS." Which was still a bit annoyed at the water dripping from her console. **_Sorry, old girl. I'll get you dried off as soon as I can_****.**

Her psychic response was not particularly heartening.

Meanwhile, the human took a few shaky steps away from the railing, his confusion quickly becoming agitation. "Moriarty?" he said urgently. "Where is he?" His eye fell on the Zslarisskk, hissing behind its forcefield. It had already regained its natural snakelike form. "Good God, what is _that?"_

"_That_ is a Zslarisskkk, and don't point. It's rude." Then the first question sank in, and the Doctor whirled around. "Wait, Moriarty? Professor _James Moriarty_? Moriarty is a _Zslarisskkk_?" He took a closer look at the human, marked the Victorian clothing, a bit crumpled, the hawklike nose, and the still piercing grey eyes. Well, piercing for a human. "But that would make you Sherlock Holmes!" He felt a childlike grin spreading across his face. "Brilliant, I always thought you were imaginary!" Then he frowned. "Arthur Conan Doyle has a _lot_ to explain next time we meet for coffee."

"Arthur Conan Doyle? Watson's publisher?" Holmes repeated, no doubt picking out the one thing in that outburst that made sense to him. Then he shook his head sharply, and his grey eyes went back to Moriarty/Zslarisskkk. "Do you truly expect me to believe," he said, drawing himself up and making a visible effort to gather his wits together. "That _that, that…thing_ is Professor Moriarty?"

A bit disappointing so far, the world's greatest detective, the Doctor thought. But then again, he _had_ just fallen off a waterfall in Victorian England into a spaceship. Humans seemed to find that a bit unnerving.

Oops, Holmes was still waiting for an answer.

"Yes," the Doctor said. "Well, Professor Moriarty is just a name it gave itself when it landed here; Zslarisskkks can make themselves look like the native species, though they can't hide their true forms entirely. They tend to have some snakelike traits. Dangerous, very dangerous, a little too prone to world domination." He smiled proudly. "I was tracking it anyway, and it looks like I got here just in time!"

Holmes digested this. To his credit, he seemed only a _little_ discomforted by the speed with which the Doctor had rattled it off. "And what," he said at last, "do you intend to do with us now?"

"Well, I can drop you off pretty much wherever you like, just as soon as I drop the Zslarisskkk off at its planet…"

"You will simply release it?" Holmes interrupted coldly. "After the harm it has caused?"

"Well, I'll have to talk with it first, of course, get it to promise to never return to Earth. Don't think it will be a problem." The Zslarisskkk had flinched back when he'd introduced himself; it clearly recognized the trouble it was in. Before Holmes could protest further, the Doctor met his eyes and let him see a little of the Oncoming Storm behind the young face and the bowtie. "I understand your concern, Mr. Holmes, but trust me, Professor Moriarty won't be coming back."

For a long moment, Holmes held his eyes — it was impressive that he didn't flinch. "I suppose I have no choice but to accept your word," he said grudgingly at last. "But I insist on accompanying you to ensure the creature is…removed from Earth." Clearly still struggling with that concept, but getting there. "Is this a…a vessel of some kind?"

The Doctor smiled, the tension broke. "Time machine, actually, though it can travel in space too. That's what TARDIS stands for, Time And Relative Dimension In Space." The grin widened. "See?"

With that, he crossed to the TARDIS doors and flung them open. The universe greeted them, stars and galaxies spread out like a map. "I just had the old girl take us out of orbit while I got things settled, but now that everything's secured, we'll be on our way!"

Holmes took a shaky step towards the doors, then another, eyes fixed on the stars. His expression warred between disbelief and a terrible hunger that the Doctor recognized. _Finally, a proper mystery_. The detective's hands flexed at his side. "And…and time as well, you said? Can you travel anywhere? _Any_ time?"

"Yes," the Doctor said, watching his face. He put on his most casual tone. "I can show you after I drop off the Zslarisskkk. I'm supposed to go visit the Ponds, but after all, this is a time machine!"

With a visible effort, Holmes wrested his gaze away from the doors. "How does it work? I am no expert in time travel…" A fact that I must change _immediately_, that look said. "But would traveling to the past not bear a risk of inadvertently changing the future?"

The Doctor just grinned and closed the doors. _This will be fun._

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**A/N: I actually think Holmes would be extremely disconcerted when his stores of information became abruptly useless, and I think he would be more inclined to believe that he was drugged or something instead of actually in a spaceship (not really a concept he'd have much of a framework for). Finally, Holmes doesn't strike me as very adaptable; I've always read his retirement as subconsciously fleeing from a London that was changing too fast to keep up with. He and the Doctor would drive each other insane in less than a day. But I couldn't resist trying to make this work when I saw this prompt. Hope springs eternal…**

**By the way, Holmes might make a terrible Companion, but ****_Watson_**** would be excellent, and someone needs to write a story where he makes friends with the TARDIS.**


	10. Chapter 10 - The Speckled Foot

**10\. From Ennui Enigma: The Adventure of the Speckled Foot**

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Readers of _The Strand_ magazine might assume that Holmes and I were continually in each other's company in the days in which we roomed together at Baker Street, and that we occupied our evenings with me at my writing desk and Holmes staring idly into the fire. While it was true that we occupied many hours in this way, the truth remained that both Holmes and I had other interests. When not on a case, it was not uncommon for Holmes to spend hours at the library or the morgue, while I for one was a member of a very respectable billiards club.

Thus it was that I found myself alone at Baker Street one winter afternoon, reading the paper and quite enjoying my solitude. Holmes had mentioned business in the library that would occupy him until after dinner, and I had no obligations except to partake of Mrs. Hudson's excellent tea.

I had just finished page three and had moved to page four when I heard voices coming from the entrance hall. One, I recognized easily as Mrs. Hudson's, while the other was indistinct. Not Holmes' at least; I had heard him argue with our formidable landlady too many times to mistake the sound. The voices continued for several minutes, and then there was the sound of footsteps on the stairs.

Curious, I put down my paper, and it was well I did so, for in the next instant, the door sprang open and Billy entered the room. Younger than most of the Irregulars at seven or eight, Billy had nevertheless proven himself most useful to Holmes in his investigations.

"Hullo, Billy," I greeted with a smile. "Do you have a message for Holmes? I'm afraid he is absent at the moment, but if it is not too urgent, you are welcome to wait here." _Where it's warm, _I thought, but did not add. Billy would no doubt be offended at the thought of receiving "chari'y".

"Actually," he said, scuffing one foot on the carpet. "I came ter see you, Doctor."

"Me?" I said, startled. I knew many of the Irregulars by name and had even persuaded one or two of them to sit still for a medical examination, but only when they were nearly on death's door. "Is everything alright? Do you feel ill?"

"Yes, well, right, no. I don't know. I don't know woss wrong, Doctor Watson, and...I thought that since yer a doctor, right, yer could 'elp me out."

"I'll do what I can," I promised. "Now, what are your symptoms?" At his blank look, I elaborated, "What hurts? What parts of your body feel strange?"

"Well, its' me foot. I mean, right, it don't feel wrong exactly, but it _looks_ right strange." At my instruction, he pointed to the foot in question.

"Can I see it?" I asked. "Without the shoe or sock?"

He seemed reluctant to part with these treasures, even temporarily — Billy, like many of the Irregulars, usually went barefoot — but at my renewed urging, he pried the boot off and tucked the sock carefully inside. This done, he pointed at his foot. "Spot it? There are speckles on me foot."

I followed his gaze. There _were_ certainly speckles on his foot, but even a cursory examination relieved my anxiety. Indeed, I was hard pressed to bite back a smile.

"Billy," I said gravely, "Are these new boots?"

"Yeah," he said proudly. "I bought 'em wiv some o' the brass from Guvnor…uh, Mister Holmes."

Well at least Holmes had begun paying them. "And new socks?" I said, still seriously.

This time he nodded anxiously. "What is it? Is i' da plague? Am I gon'a die?" And then, in a childlike wail, "I _knew_ wearin' socks were bad for yer!"

I fancied I could hear Mrs. Hudson rising to her feet in startlement below. In a moment, she would come to investigate. "Billy," I said, more sternly. "You must calm yourself. It is not the plague, and you are not going to die."

He sniffled, and I was reminded again of how young he was. "I-I'm not?"

"No," I said firmly. "You are not." Once he'd calmed down enough to listen, I explained gently, "Sometime socks leave little pieces of fabric on your skin after you wear them for a long time. It's called 'lint.' It's not dangerous, but if you're not used to wearing socks, I can understand why it would be frightening."

He considered this a moment, and his face flushed with shame. "Yer mean I got all worked up and it's not even _dangerous_?"

"It is not," I said. "But you were very right to come to me, just in case."

He looked up at me with big eyes. "Yer…yer don't think I'm a coward, do yer?

"I do not."

He favored me with a wide, watery smile. "Thanks, doc."

There was a demur rap on the door and then Mrs. Hudson entered. "Is everything alright, Doctor Watson?" She only glanced at Billy, but she had no doubt heard the commotion earlier.

"Yes, Mrs. Hudson," I said, "Everything is quite alright. Billy kindly came to visit me in Holmes' absence." Billy nodded frantically in confirmation of this as he dragged on his shoes and the offending socks.

"Wouldn't want 'im her cop lonely, Mrs. 'udson!"

She smiled. "We would not indeed." Her disapproval melted into motherly fondness. "Since you were so kind as to visit the doctor, perhaps you would like a lemon tart?"

Billy scrambled to his feet at once — Mrs. Hudson's lemon tarts were justly famous — and cast me one last grin before stampeding past her down the stairs. Mrs. Hudson smiled knowingly at me on her way out.

Smiling, I sat back down to wait for Holmes.


	11. Chapter 11 - A Medical Mystery

**11\. From Ennui Enigma: A Puzzling Medical Case**

* * *

It was a fateful day in November when I arrived at 221B Baker Street with the intent of visiting my good friend, Sherlock Holmes. Our paths had failed to cross for several weeks; I was quite busy with my practice and my marriage, and from what little I had read in the papers, Holmes was occupied with small cases that did not require the services of a biographer. Yet more and more, I found myself eager for his company, if only to assure myself that solitude was not weighing too heavily upon his spirits.

"I'm not sure if he's in, Doctor," Mrs. Hudson said as she let me into the hall and took my hat and coat. "But of course you are welcome to wait upstairs."

"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," I answered, somewhat confused. For all her kindness, little escaped Mrs. Hudson's attention; it was most unusual for her to be ignorant of Holmes' activities. However, I did as she suggested and ascended the stairs. "Holmes?"

Pushing the door open, I was met by a most curious sight: a black cat with white markings down its chest was sitting in Holmes' chair. Had Holmes acquired the animal as a companion in my absence? I had not thought him overly fond of cats, but Holmes often displayed hidden depths. "Hullo, puss," I said to it with a smile. "Is Holmes about?"

"Mrwow!"

I laughed. The cat was evidently as sociable as its master. I fished in my pockets but came up with no treat to entice it closer. Then, to my great surprise, the cat leapt from the chair and came to a halt in the shadow of the desk, much nearer to where I stood. Stiffly, I crouched and held out my hand.

"Puss, puss" I said, "here, puss."

The cat's tail twitched in feline irritation. Yet it did not run from me as I half expected it to. Instead, before I could react, it unsheathed its claws and attacked the wooden legs of the desk.

"Scritch, scritch, scritch, scraaatttchh, scraaatttchh, scraaatttchh, scritch, scritch, scritch."

With a cry, I ran to stop the vandalism. How like an animal of Holmes' to attack the one piece of furniture that Holmes himself rarely utilized. The cat evaded my first clumsy grab, shifting its attention to the second desk leg.

"Scritch, scritch, scritch, scraaatttchh, scraaatttchh, scraaatttchh…"

The confounded beast attack was practically rhythmic, for all the world like a telegraph operator spelling out a message!

Short, short, short, long, long, long… I froze in shock and surprise. _No, surely this is impossible._

Spared from my attempts to capture it, the cat met my eyes and batted three more times at the wooden desk.

"Scritch, scritch, scritch."

Short, short, short, long, long, long, short, short, short. An SOS. How could a cat possibly hit upon the exact Morse code for an SOS. Not once, but twice? Surely it was not possible… My eyes fell on the cat. Taking advantage of my indecision, it had jumped to the desk top and sat looking at me. At this better angle, I could see its eyes: a cool grey that was most remarkable for a cat. The pattern of its white markings, vaguely reminiscent of a collared shirt…

"H-holmes?"

God help me, the cat nodded.

I took a step closer. The cat crouched — I could not quite think of him as my friend as yet — but did not flee. "That…that is impossible. I must be imagining things. Or perhaps I am going mad."

The cat's eyes narrowed and it raised a paw again.

"Wait!" I said hastily as it made to scratch the desktop. "I believe you." I did not, not completely, but I had no desire to have my desk marred by feline claws. If by some miracle this _was_ Holmes_, _perhaps the assertion would deter him. "But there must be some better way to communicate."

The cat managed a look of staggering contempt, combined with an impatient flick of its tail. I could almost hear Holmes' coolly ironic voice saying "_Brilliant deduction. And what do you suggest?"_

But in that moment, an idea _had _occurred to me. Motioning hurriedly for the cat — for _Holmes_ — to wait, I hurried to a little hole in the wall, half hidden by a bookcase, and crouched down beside it.

"Basil? Dawson?"

I fear in my agitation that my voice came out louder than I had intended. It was no doubt deafening to the other occupants of our flat. But I could think of no other way to confirm my suspicions. I would do my utmost to make reparations later on.

"Basil! Dawson! I need your help."

For a terrible moment, I feared the hole was unoccupied, but after several minutes I was rewarded by the sound of voices within. I will not dwell in detail on the exchange which followed, save to note that it is quite against a mouse's nature to voluntarily subject himself to the presence of a cat, and therefore it is a testament to the unbridled courage of my fellow lodgers that they proved willing to listen to my explanation and eventually accept my assurances of safety. I nevertheless kept a tight grip on Holmes by way of precaution as the two mice tentatively emerged. He meowed at me irritably but did not claw, much to my relief.

"You believe that is Mr. Holmes?" Dawson said doubtfully, looking askance at the cat I held in my arms. "But, but _how _could such a thing be possible? Are you certain he is not a simple cat?"

"I am _not_ certain," I admitted. "I was hoping perhaps one of you might speak with him and discover the truth of the matter."

"Mrwwwwoooooooowwwwww!"

Basil folded his arms and glared at the cat in my arms. "There is no need to be rude," he said severely.

"Mrwow."

"I accept your apology. But however did you get like this?"

"Mrwow."

"Witches do not exist."

"Mrwwoww!"

"Actually," I interrupted. "Last year Holmes and I had a rather fantastical encounter with a woman who claimed to be a witch. She even summoned a lion using a magic wand." Spoken out-loud, I could understand Basil's skepticism. "Holmes ended the confrontation by locking her in a wardrobe."

"Mrwow."

"Apparently," Dr. Dawson said, "she still holds a grudge. Why did you go to her lodgings, Holmes?"

"Mrwoww."

I sighed. I did not have the first idea of how to locate the witch again, let alone persuade her to remove the spell. Holmes was usually the one with more success in such endeavors. I wondered if Basil could be persuaded to assist.

"It could have been worse, I suppose, dear fellow," I told the irate cat. "She could have turned you in a hedgehog."

Despite the seriousness of the situation, I could not help but laugh at Holmes' widening eyes.

* * *

**A/N: The incident to which Watson refers is actually a prompt from last year; I just couldn't resist. It's chapter 16 of "Deck the Holmes ('Cause He Deserves It)."**


	12. Chapter 12 - An Unusual Arrangement

**12\. From Book girl fan: An unusual arrangement.**

* * *

"My _dearest_ Mary, what a lovely parlor. Your husband is wise to bow to your sense of taste!"

"Thank you, Mrs. Edwards," Mary Watson said with a smile, pouring her another cup of tea. "John is very kind."

"You are lucky there," Mrs. Horner said, a trifle bitterly. It was common knowledge that her husband Tom enjoyed the drink more than he did the company of his wife. The ladies on the street, including Mary, took care to invite her to call upon them as often as possible.

"Indeed, having a husband under foot can sometimes be _quite_ an inconvenience," Mrs. Edwards said with a laugh. "Though I am glad that you seem happy in your choice of husband, Mary dear. A _doctor_, and able to provide for you."

Mary did not bother to explain that John's ability to provide was the least important of his virtues. The way he looked at her, the way he loved her and listened to her, the kindness in his heart, all were more valuable to her than the greatest of fortunes. Somehow, she did not think her visitors would understand.

"Is it true that before he was a doctor he was a biographer?" Mrs. Horner asked, accepting another tea cake. "The things I hear of this 'Sherlock Holmes' seem to beggar belief!"

"Mr. Holmes is quite real," Mary said firmly, "Though his powers of observation are indeed extraordinary. But John was a doctor before he met Mr. Holmes; he simply kept a record of the cases he was able to observe."

"How _adventurous_!" Mrs. Edwards said. "Though I don't recall seeing any new stories in _The Strand_ in recent months. I gather he no longer accompanies Mr. Holmes on his cases?"

"Oh no, he continues to do so," Mary corrected with a small smile. "Mr. Holmes has simply asked that John temporarily cease publishing them. It is a most…_unusual_ arrangement."

At that very moment, the front door opened and Mary heard John's voice speaking hurriedly to the footman. Mary excused herself gracefully and found Sherlock Holmes leaning heavily on her husband's shoulder in the doorway, blood soaking into his left leg. Despite the pain tightening his face, he nodded a greeting to her. John followed his gaze.

"Mary!" John said. "I'm sorry to have disturbed you. Holmes requires a few bandages, and I didn't want to make him walk all the way to the hospital."

"Of course not. Do you wish my help?"

"Thank you, Mrs. Watson," Mr. Holmes said gravely. "But you should return to your guests."

"Not your most impressive deduction, Mr. Holmes," Mary teased him gently as her husband helped him limp towards the door of the dispensary. After all, Mrs. Horner and Mrs. Edwards were already craning their heads around the doorframe to peer in shock at the commotion. But she took his advice and gently guided them back into the room before closing the door.

"As I told you," she said, "An unusual arrangement. "More tea?"


	13. Chapter 13 - Middle Names

**13\. From Hades Lord of the Dead: Holmes and Watson discuss the subject of their first and middle names.**

* * *

"_Cricket_, Holmes? Surely you cannot be serious!"

"I am entirely serious," Holmes said testily. "My father named both my brother and myself using the surnames of his favorite players. My mother was unwilling to contest him."

"I confess I _had_ wondered, my dear fellow," I said. "But it hardly seemed appropriate to ask when we first became acquainted."

"Hmmph," Holmes said, in a tone that implied it was not quite appropriate _now_. "But what of you, Watson?" he pressed. "Is John a family name?"

"No, actually," I said. "My mother was extremely fond of the Gospel of John, and she was able to persuade my father by citing it as a good Christian name." With 'Sherlock' as an alternative, I was suddenly immensely glad that my mother _had_ been willing to speak her mind. And that my father was not abnormally fond of cricket.

Holmes cocked his head. "Yet your middle name, Hamish, is in honor of your uncle."

I could not help but wince. My uncle was still a difficult man, despite our modest reconciliation the year before. "Yes. He and my father were quite close at the time." I knew Holmes would catch the nuance in that qualifier and had no desire to resurrect old family wounds. "Have you a middle name?"

Holmes picked up a newspaper. "To borrow the expression you are so fond of in your stories, Watson, there are things 'of which the world is not prepared to hear."

* * *

**What do _you_ think Holmes' middle name would be? I'm personally a fan of Sherlock "Not at" Holmes.**


	14. Chapter 14 - Bedside Manner

**14\. From Winter Winks 221: Bedside Manner**

* * *

**Summer, 1916**

My service in Her Late Majesty's army and my long friendship with Sherlock Holmes had conspired to sharpen my instincts; even now, many years after Holmes' supposed retirement, it was nearly impossible to take me unaware. Holmes himself, in one of his more gracious moods, had even commented upon this quality as one of my most useful virtues.

Yet this virtue did not come without a price. The same instincts that made it possible for me to avoid a criminal lurking in the London fog made it difficult to find my rest in the crowded field hospital in which I found myself. Worse, as a physician, I was acutely conscious of the burden it placed on my orderlies and fellow doctors that I was, albeit temporarily, unable to carry out my duties.

Therefore, it was a restless doze from which I awoke late one night to find a stranger beside my bed.

I let out a muffled cry of exclamation and began to sit up, but the stranger instantly reached out a soothing hand.

"There is nothing to fear, Watson." The voice, though not the silhouette, was as familiar to me as my own.

"H-holmes?" Instinctively mirroring his tone, I kept my voice low. Even in the dead of night, the moans of the wounded would prevent us from being overheard if we whispered, but I did not care to take chances with the safety of my friend. Clearly Holmes had reasons of his own for appearing as he did at this late hour and keeping us in darkness. As my eyes adjusted, I noticed that Holmes' dark hair seemed far lighter than it had been the last time I'd seen him, and he had the beginnings of a very fine mustache in a similar style to my own. More surprisingly, he wore what appeared to be a soldier's uniform. I doubted anyone who did not know him intimately would recognize him. "What are you doing here? Have you enlisted?"

"Of course not," he said, and that familiar ironic tone did more to confirm his identify than any oath he could have made. "A man of fifty-seven has no business on a battlefield."

As I myself was sixty-four, I knew this to be a thinly concealed comment on my own suitability. Holmes had never agreed with my decision to reenlist. However, I had been unable to simply wait in London when my experience with bullet holes and broken bones — honed to a fine art over the years — could perhaps save the lives of our soldiers.

"It was my own decision, Holmes," I said calmly. "As well you know." Rather than be drawn further into our old argument, I peered at Holmes as best as I could in the low light. "Are you alright, old fellow?"

"Of course," he answered at once, though the note of exhaustion evident in his voice belied his assurance. "I am not the one lying in a hospital bed!"

"A touch of fever only," I assured him. "I am nearly recovered." Then, lest he pursue this line of inquiry, I prodded, "But what are you doing here? You would hardly have had time to hear of my convalescence and travel to the front, even if you could be admitted to the camp." And the alternative, I thought privately, that he was engaged on some private business of Mycroft's, surely left him little time to visit an old colleague whose illness was not severe.

"I informed my brother that I would not depart without saying farewell face-to-face," Holmes said softly. "I believe I made you such a promise after that sordid affair at Reichenbach…though in truth I did not think to find you ill."

An icy hand clenched tight around my heart. "Surely…" I started, blinked back helpless tears, and tried again. "I…Thank you, Holmes. Can…can you tell me anything about where you are going?"

Holmes shook his head, and there was more to just exhaustion in the gesture. "No. The nature of my mission must only be known to my brother and a select few. I hope to return within a year or two." He paused; no doubt he knew as well as I did that nothing was certain, that he would be walking into danger with the dulled reflexes of an old man, and that his carefully nurtured knowledge of London would do him little good on the Continent.

And though I had made the same choice for myself, I found it nearly unbearable to see my friend on the same road. I blinked back more tears, cursing the weakness brought on by my illness, and took a deep steadying breath before looking up into my friend's shadowy face.

"I will be waiting," I said, as steadfastly as I could. I reached out weakly; he took my hand. "I will expect a full accounting, however, once the war is done."

A ghost of a laugh left him. Once the war was done? A dream that became harder and harder to believe. Yet Holmes' voice, when he spoke, was likewise steadier. "I can only imagine what romantic drivel you might make of it," he said. "Very well, a bargain. A full accounting once the war is done."

I squeezed his hand once more and prayed it would be possible. "Good luck, dear fellow."

"Goodbye, old friend."

He did not stay long after that; there was no more to be said.

* * *

**A/N: To be continued…**


	15. Chapter 15 - The Price of a Life

**15\. From Domina Temporis: an encounter with the supernatural.**

**A/N: This story is a continuation of Ch. 14, set in a field hospital during WWI.**

* * *

When I awoke the next morning, I had some faint hope that Holmes' visit was simply the product of lingering fever, and that even now he was safely back in London. Yet I knew in my heart that this was not the case. Still, there was little time to grieve. I was soon returned to duty, as there were no hospital beds to waste on a man nearly recovered and too many injuries for the doctors to spurn the extra help.

Wearily, I worked day in and day out, driving myself as hard as I dared. There were too many in desperate need, yet in my quiet moments, my thoughts continued turning back to Holmes and the danger he no doubt faced.

"You must be very worried for Mr. Holmes."

I paused, startled from a half-remembered prayer. A soldier stood nearby, not one familiar to me, though I could hardly hope to be personally acquainted with so many. I could see no obvious injury, however, so no doubt he was one of the few soldiers dispatched to guard the hospital.

"Excuse me?" I felt a surge of terror; if this simple soldier knew of Holmes' identity, was it possible for him to avoid those who would do him harm? I prayed I had misunderstood, that Holmes was safe.

"I'm sorry, Dr. Watson, but I overheard you speaking with him when he visited two days ago," the soldier said. "I didn't mean to alarm you; I have not spoken of him to anyone else."

My racing heart calmed a little. "Who are you?"

"Still, he _does_ face great danger. He will require all his intellect and powers of disguise to come home safely."

"He will do so," I said, far more confidently than I felt. "And you, soldier, have not answered my question. Who _are_ you?"

"A friend, Dr. Watson," the soldier said. "To you _and_ to Mr. Holmes." Before I could speak, he added. "What if I could guarantee Mr. Holmes' safe return? Whole and healthy, untouched by his enemies?"

"Do not taunt me," I said brusquely. "You are no friend to speak in riddles, and there are no guarantees in war."

The soldier took a small step closer. "But there _are_, Dr. Watson. There are forces beyond your comprehension, forces that transcend man and his petty wars. I could bring your friend home safe. His mission accomplished, even, his mind at ease. A small matter, for one like me."

There was no hint of uncertainty in his voice, no hint of jest. I could not help but believe his words, though my reason cried out that such a thing was impossible. No man could deliver what he promised. Unless…

The creature smiled. "Think of it, Dr. Watson," he said. "Is that not a miracle worth bargaining for?"

I swallowed; my throat felt suddenly dry. "And what_," _I said, "would such a miracle _cost_?"

"Nothing you need now," he said, tilting his head. "Not your mind, your memories, your health. A simple thing. A small thing."

"Your soul," a third voice said quietly behind me. I whirled around. Another figure stood there, dressed identically to the first, though something in his face hinted at a nobility that the first one lacked. Sad and sorrowful, he looked, though not afraid. "The miracle would cost your soul."

"You are not to interfere," the first man snarled. "This is not your business."

The stranger ignored him, turning to me. "Do not let the demon deceive you, doctor. The thing you would save would not be worth what you paid for it."

The demon scoffed. "A soul? What is a soul anyway? You have a chance to save your friend, your only friend, to spare him unimaginable danger, pain, sacrifice, and you refuse to take it?"

"You cannot imagine eternity, Doctor," the second man said quietly. Still quietly, yet my stomach clenched at the certainty in his voice. "A permanent separation from God. You cannot imagine the agony you would endure."

"Threats, that's all an angel can offer," the demon snarled. "What is threats compared to a life?"

The angel met my eyes, and I could no more look away than grow wings. "You know him well, Doctor Watson. Would Sherlock Holmes really desire his safety at such a price?"

_"You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!_" Such guilt and horror, though the bullet wound was slight. What would Holmes say if offered this choice?

In my heart of hearts, I knew.

The demon knew it too. "His death will be on your head!"

My lips quirked bleakly. "Go to hell."

Then I turned away. My heart hurt, and I was unbearably tired.

* * *

**1918 **

I shoved through the crowd, my heart lurching as I spied a familiar face. "Holmes!"

"Watson, my dear fellow." Holmes was thinner than he had been, and he carried himself stiffly as though in pain. Yet he was alive, and safe, and smiling with his old accustomed warmth.

I clasped the hand he offered me "I am so glad you have returned."

His mouth twisted. "Not easily, nor quickly, but I trust brother Mycroft will be tolerably pleased. And you," he added wryly. "I have not forgotten our bargain."

"Well then," I said, picking up his small satchel before he could protest. "Come with me, old fellow. I have arranged for a motor car to transport us."

He grumbled something about 'new-fangled contraptions' but followed me willingly enough. I helped him into the car and settled his baggage alongside.

Almost lost in the roar of the motor, I thought I heard a rustle of wings.


	16. Chapter 16 - Candles

**16\. From BookRookie12: Candles**

* * *

'_Knowledge of chemistry: profound,'_ I reminded myself.

"Are you sure this is a good idea, Doctor?" Mrs. Hudson whispered in my ear.

"Of course, Mrs. Hudson," I whispered in return, trying to sound confident. _Knowledge of chemistry: profound. Knowledge of chemistry: profound._ "The effect is sure to be spectacular."

"Explosions are spectacular," Tommy piped up cheerfully. At a quelling glance from Wiggins, he subsided, but it was clear from looking at the four or five Irregulars crowded in the front vestibule that they rather hoped Holmes _would_ make a mistake. Permission to decorate the tree was an honor for a small boy; witnessing an explosion would no doubt be a privilege.

"There shall be no explosion," Holmes said, coating the last candle wick with a curious resin of his own and setting it carefully back into its holder. "Rather a simple bit of chemistry, hardly worthy of this fuss."

I, who had been driven out of our shared rooms by noxious fumes more than once, found this less than reassuring. Thankfully, all present had jackets and boots near to hand; it would not be a lengthy process to evacuate.

"I believe the candles are ready to be lit. Tommy, if you would assist me."

No doubt the boy regretted being so outspoken before. However, he stepped forward and accepted a pack of matches from my friend. Taking up another, he and Holmes commenced lighting the candles one by one.

I gasped. Instead of their usual golden glow, these candles shone out in blue, green, and red, resembling nothing more than fairy lights nestled against the decorated boughs. I heard a similar gasp from the Irregulars, and even Mrs. Hudson stood entranced.

All too soon, the strange colors burned out and the candles resumed their usual gleam. After a moment, Mrs. Hudson woke from her trance and began extinguishing them; it was dangerous to leave a Christmas tree lit for too long with the threat of fire. By then, the Irregulars were talking excitedly, and I had no doubt that word of this would spread all over London before the day was out.

"Well, Watson," Holmes said smugly at my elbow. "I trust that was spectacular enough?"


	17. Chapter 17 - Runaways

**17\. From Book girl fan: Runaways.**

* * *

"I say!"

"Not so loudly, Doctor Watson," Dawson said reproachfully. "The youngest has only just dropped off to sleep."

I gazed down at the fluffy pile of goslings nesting in Holmes' second Persian slipper. No doubt my friend would not be pleased. In deference to Dawson, however, sat down on the floor to continue the conversation. "But why are there _geese_ in our apartment?" I cast around for a possible excuse. "Is this for one of Basil's cases?"

It was sometimes difficult to read emotions on such a tiny face, but I thought Dawson looked sheepish. "Eh…Basil doesn't know. He's on an errand for his brother today and won't return until late. But Basil's a good fellow at heart. I'm sure he'll understand."

This did not sound promising; Basil, like Holmes, did not take well to surprises. "But you have not yet explained what they are doing here," I pointed out.

Dawson clenched his little fists; his kind, round face darkened with unusual anger. "They ran away," he said. "From a horrible place that was raising them to be next year's Christmas dinner!"

I felt a flush of guilt. I was fond of Christmas goose myself.

"…Doctor Watson?" Dawson said hesitantly after a moment or two. "Do…do you think they might stay _here_ for a day or two while I find another situation? I promise I'll take care of them; you'd hardly notice they are here!"

I had heavy doubts upon that score, but the hope in my little friend's face was impossible to refuse. "I suppose…but you must keep them away from Holmes' chemicals. And they cannot remain longer than a day or two."

Dawson's heartfelt thanks did much to reassure me I had made the right choice, though I privately decided to move my own possessions into my room and advise Holmes to do the same.

Perhaps Mrs. Hudson wouldn't notice?

* * *

**A/N: This story has undergone a huge number of permutations; as always, my Muse eventually settled on the strangest one. Baker Street is quite the menagerie this year!**


	18. Chapter 18 - Poetry

**18\. From BookRookie12: Poetry**

* * *

"I'm bored!"

"Shut your mouth, Billy," Wiggins said sharply, but privately, he had to agree. For once, everyone's stomachs were full, and Mister Holmes had been forcibly removed to the seaside by Doctor Watson. No new cases meant no new work for the Irregulars.

"We could go see the tree in Trafalgar Square," James pointed out.

"We did that yesterday," Simon grumbled. "Reckon we could look at window displays."

"Or find some wealthy bloke 'oo won't mind partin' wif his valuables…" Billy said, a little more cheerfully.

"Enough," Wiggins said, silencing them all. "Mister Holmes is always suggesting we keep our eyes and ears open. We should go around and see if we can learn anything useful to tell him when he gets back."

A few perked up at this. Mister Holmes was rather generous with his shillings.

"We can meet up again at five o'clock and look for something to eat," Wiggins said before there could be arguments. "Off you go!"

The boys scattered in all directions.

Wiggins set off in the direction of Kensington Gardens, taking his time and listening to the chatter on the street. It was like Mister 'Ol…_Holmes_ said. No one noticed a boy listening and lurking about. By the time he reached Elm Street, he'd picked up a number of tidbits Mister Holmes might find interesting. Mr. Gladstone, the baker, was struggling to make ends meet and had decided to save money by short-changing customers. Not that he was very good at it; Wiggins figured there'd be a Constable to visit him by the week.

Then, as he drew close to the park, he noticed two girls skipping rope in the shadow of a nearby building. They were chanting the words together, and a familiar name caught Wiggins' attention.

_Mr. Holmes can solve your case_

_No matter the time and no matter the place._

_Robbers beware,_

_Don't you dare._

_All he needs to find you is a single hair._

_You'll be written in the stories_

_You'll be published in the Strand_

_He's the greatest detective in all the land!_

One of the girls tripped at that point, and they both burst out in peals of laughter.

For his part, Wiggins had never grinned so much in his life. Just as he'd hoped, they started up again after a minute or two, and he settled down unobtrusively to listen.

He just _had _to have this memorized by the time Mr. Holmes got back.


End file.
